


A Taste of Honey

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: Valerie and Lucille are just friends, until a summer day trip to Wanstead Park changes what being friends really means. In the aftermath, Valerie questions everything, unsure if she’s brave enough to seek out the answers from Lucille.“In saying nothing, she said everything.”





	A Taste of Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Follows canon up to 7x08. Draws upon Valerie and Lucille’s Health and Relationship class in 7x06, but is set later, spanning late summer to early autumn of 1964. I’ve been writing this off and on since July, but didn’t get to finish until now! I hope you like it. Fair warning, Valerie briefly entertains some dark thoughts towards the end of the story. Written for the lovely @iampenbot. Shout out to @pirateboots and @carolrance for their editing and advice. This is a better story for our many conversations. Title from the 1961 Tony Richardson film (and 1958 Shelagh Delaney play) of the same name.

_“My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.”  
_— William Shakespeare, _The Taming of the Shrew_ , Act iv, Scene iii.

***

You’re not alone in this room, but you may as well be.

Tonight is your first Health and Relationships class of the new school year, and you’ve got a new group of girls to contend with. September’s barely started, but the leaves have already begun to turn, and there’s something approaching a chill in the air again. Summer seems like a distant memory now.

A lot has changed since you waved off the old class for the holidays and stacked up the chairs with Lucille, chatting away. You were both full of ideas for your next day off and all the ones to follow it. The future stretched out before you. Its promise hung in the air, bright and brilliant. 1964 was already so different to the year that preceded it, and anything felt possible. Everything felt right.

All you had intended to do was finish tidying away, load up your supplies, lock up, and cycle home to Nonnatus House. Maybe you’d finish the evening with a sneaky nightcap as a bonus for being off duty until the morning. Home. That’s what Lucille called it. That’s what it felt like. _“Home then?”_ she’d said, with a gentle touch to your forearm, and an even gentler smile. You didn’t know it then, but that’s when everything changed. There was no need to reply, all it took was a nod of your head. That simple nod set you both on a different course. Sometimes – more often than you’d really like – thinking about the other versions of you that made different choices keeps you awake at night. Somewhere, there’s a version of you that cycled straight home to Nonnatus, instead of staying out with Lucille, and taking the longest route possible. It was to take advantage of the longer, lighter days; at least, that’s what you told yourself at the time – a thin excuse, but an excuse nonetheless.

You took Lucille to the docks, bikes propped against the railings. It was a risk to be there, still in uniform, looking out over the water and watching the ships, passing a cigarette between you as you talked, but it felt like one worth taking. Every so often, your fingertips would brush when Lucille would pass the cigarette back to you. After the first time, she stopped apologising. A little later on, when the light started to fade, you cared less about one cigarette turning into two, that Lucille’s hand on the railing wasn’t just close to yours, but covered it, or that you’d hold that cigarette to Lucille’s lips with your free hand instead. The boats and the dockers were long forgotten; you were far too busy watching her take a drag, fascinated suddenly by it all, looking her right in the eyes, the amber light of the lit cigarette reflected in them.

It felt strangely private – dare you say intimate – given that you were very much in public.

This time last year, you were ready and raring to go, keen to get the classes going. It was about _“creating positive change,”_ you told Sister Julienne. You wanted to give back to your community – that piqued her interest, and seemed to allay some of her fears. But, more than that, you wanted to arm the girls of Poplar with the right kind of information, so they could take control of their own bodies and their own lives. To put an end to them walking around with their heads full of third-hand stories, gossip, and scaremongering like you, and countless girls before you had dealt with. You achieved that, mostly, barring the overblown reactions of mothers like Maureen Walker, but even then, there was so much more to Maureen’s story. There won’t be another Lily or Maureen if you can help it.

The classes meant you worked more closely with Lucille, gladly recruited by Sister Julienne to help in the delivery. You know she was only doing it out of kindness, because so much of it went against her own values. She told you later that you’d helped her to see things, see the world, a little differently than before. Everything wasn’t as black and white as she once thought.

It isn’t for you anymore either.

Now, the idea of being in such close quarters with her, week after week until next summer seems impossible – like some sort of torture, because everything is different. There’s no chatter while you set up. Nothing. The ease and familiarity you had together – the kind that made silence always feel comfortable – is long gone. You’ve arranged the room in silence, waiting at opposite ends for the girls to appear. Lucille’s tried to catch your eye every so often, but every time, you looked away. In those moments, it’s looked like she wanted to talk too, like she’s itching to fill the sudden, heavy, and not at all comfortable silence between you, but doesn’t.

It’s not Lucille’s fault. It’s yours.

Until a little over two weeks ago, everything was perfect, and that’s not a word you use lightly. Almost all of the summer had gone in the blink of an eye. You want to say that it’s down to working twelve-hour shifts, six-days a week, delivering more babies than you ever had before – Phyllis said she hadn’t seen this many births since after the war. Except, you can’t, because it’s nothing to do with that, and everything to do with Lucille.

Since that final class in late July, you’ve spent every day off that coincided together, come rain or shine.

You pottered around bookshops looking for her favourite Keats and Shakespeare, watching her face light up whenever you’d come across something she’d never seen or left behind in Mandeville. _“Little treasures_ ,” she called them, shared with an equally ecstatic Sister Monica Joan upon your return. A lot of the time, you didn’t find what she was looking for, but it didn’t really matter, not when you were together, walking arm-in-arm down Poplar high street, oblivious to everyone else but her. Nothing could ruin it. Not the rain, not the raised eyebrows when you’d come across certain people who were less fond of Lucille. Nothing. She didn’t seem to mind that you wasted too many hours with her and Trixie in the shops on Carnaby Street either, trying on clothes in Biba you couldn’t really afford, but couldn’t quite let go of either. Any dress you tried on, you’d look to Lucille to gauge her opinion, because if Trixie had her way, you would’ve had no pay left at all. Lucille’s smile of approval was enough to make you change your mind. In the face of that, they barely had to twist your arm, much to Trixie’s delight.

Some days, it was easy to hide your growing affection – attraction, desire, _love_ – by distracting yourself with your work. Other days, the whole thing felt suffocating, and you sometimes regretted being the one to answer the door to Lucille that first night. Truthfully, even if Trixie had answered instead of you, the same result probably would’ve occurred. With the gift of hindsight, you can see it. You can see how things were changing between you, how you were growing closer by the day. Blissfully happy in each other’s company, openly seeking it out, even.

You got comfortable. Too comfortable.

You went to see _A Hard Day's Night_ with her two weeks in a row. The second time, you spent most of it watching her under the cover of darkness than watching any of the film, your hand inching closer to hers all the while, wanting to take it in your own. Later, you did, but it wasn't in quite the way you imagined. You held it as you both danced along to the album, badly, in fits of giggles, with Lucille singing along. Then, you were dancing slower, bodies closer, and she wasn’t just singing along, she was singing to _you_.

_And I love her …_

For a moment, you let yourself believe she meant it. Just a moment. And then it was gone, because you remembered you weren’t alone.

 _“Quite the little mover, Valerie,”_ Trixie said, with a giggle, looking at you both over the top of her virgin strawberry daiquiri glass. It’s a look you can only describe as knowing. That album was the only record to grace her dansette for weeks after it came out. The words got ingrained in your head, giving voice to things you could never dream of saying out loud.

You knew it was foolish to attach meaning to such things. Lucille didn’t mean them. She couldn’t possibly. She was just singing like everyone else. Everyone from the draymen who deliver beer to _The Sail,_ to your auntie Jean can sing them. The way she held your gaze didn’t matter. The way she blinked back surprise when she remembered Trixie was in the room didn’t matter either. It didn’t matter because you never spoke about any of it. Trixie’s never confronted you either, and she’s had plenty of opportunity.

After that, you tried not to let yourself get carried away, tried desperately to rein in your feelings, but you couldn’t help it. You were in love with Lucille. It was so natural to you, so easy, that you barely noticed falling for her at all. But at the same time, you noticed everything. Every lingering glance, every brush of her hand against yours, and every time you’d flush when she’d say something sweet and kind. Everything.

You go through the motions of the class. It’s easy to do. You and Lucille are a well-oiled machine now. You don’t have to refer to any notes; your charts and worksheets are all ready in advance. You can talk to the girls without really thinking, and you’re glad of it, because your head is anywhere but in this room. It’s a blessing that Lucille doesn’t need as much prompting as she used to either. In fact, she could probably do this without you. The girls’ questions don’t throw her as much anymore, and she’s not as cautious in answering them. Even things like the daft rubbish that Caroline Gillespie used to come out with that left all the other girls in a fits of giggles, blushing furiously and taking far too long to settle again. Tonight is no exception, except this time, it’s her younger sister Dawn holding court, spurred on by some ridiculous old wives’ tale imparted to the group that she learned from her auntie Margot.

You could cheerfully strangle her.

_“Come now girls, you know better than this.”_

Lucille’s not so easily fooled or shocked these days, and that makes you strangely proud. In spite of everything that’s gone on.

She’s changed a lot since she arrived. So have you.

You’re not sure when exactly, but people have begun to think of you as a unit. Phyllis was the first to refer to you in the same breath. Whenever you appeared alone, Mrs Turner was the first to comment on it, as if seeing you without Lucille was the equivalent to you missing a limb.

Maybe it is.

They’ve noticed that things are different between you. That you don’t ride off on your rounds together. That you don’t sit on the same sofa at night anymore for television and Scrabble. That your chair is further away from hers at the kitchen table than it used to be. That she stopped calling Nonnatus for you whenever she needed help with one of her ladies. The first time she chose Mrs Turner over you, it hurt, but it doesn’t anymore. Everything feels awkward and stilted, like you don’t know each other at all. Like it never was … before. You just tried to carry on as normal, but it’s so _very_ far from normal, and they have to see you’re both playing pretend, blatantly ignoring the invisible gulf that’s appeared between you.

Sometimes, you wish that someone would just ask, so you could get it out in the open, but you know that’s dangerous, and it could potentially cost you your job. A quieter, softer option where you take Trixie or Phyllis into your confidence would be easier, simpler, but even then, it means making them complicit in the lie. Trixie has enough secrets.

You thought it would be easier to become less attached. To let what you and Lucille once shared lapse and drift until you were barely acquaintances outside of being colleagues. You’d be professional and cordial, help when needed, but as for anything else, that was over with. A clean break, you thought. Except, you already know that such breaks are never clean, and the separation hasn’t helped at all.

If anything, you feel more, not less.

There’s an ebb and flow to those feelings. Like the tides in Whitstable. You and Lucille went on a short break there during the August Bank Holiday, coaxed into it by Trixie (and eventually, Christopher). It was nice to get away, lose the day itself sunning yourselves on the beach, eating too much ice cream and candyfloss. Trixie never phrased it in such terms, but there were moments where it felt one of the double dates she was so fixated on you having. You’re not foolish enough to think she actually meant you and Lucille, because she was convinced neither you nor Lucille found the right man yet. Your Mr Right was still in the world somewhere. Except, for a long time, Mr Right hadn’t mattered to you at all. In the end, it felt entirely right to be there with Lucille, alongside Trixie and Christopher. Somewhere along the line, he’s become a friend too, not just Trixie’s boyfriend. He was the only one game enough to swim with you in that freezing sea, racing you back to the sand and dripping water all over Trixie while she squealed at the cold, while you attempted to save Lucille and the pages of her battered yet precious copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ from the same fate.

Mr Darcy’s confession of love got sprinkled with seawater anyway, but it didn’t matter, not with the way Lucille’s laughter sounded at the whole scene. Not with way she smiled at your poor attempt at chivalry, and insisted she help you dry off. The fact you were shivering didn't really matter either. You wanted to say something, anything, to get your mind off the fact all you wanted to do was kiss Lucille by way of thanks, just like Trixie and Christopher were doing on the next towel, lying together under the shade of Trixie’s parasol – determined to turn Whitstable into Saint-Tropez.

It wasn’t quite Saint-Tropez, but it had its own magic. No matter what Trixie says, you’d take sitting on the seafront with Lucille sharing a fish and chip supper instead of going to dinner with Trixie and Christopher any day. You don’t need candles and table service. It was enough just to be there with her. Everything’s easy. Or, it was. You tried not to think about it as if it were a date, but it felt like one, because of how closely she sat next to you on the bench. How she’d glance at you shyly whenever your hands would brush reaching for the same chip. Her enthusiasm and joy for new things is endearing and infectious. She makes everything seem wonderful, even something as ordinary as fish and chips with salt and vinegar soaking through the paper.

You stayed over in a fancy hotel you could never otherwise afford, in a twin-bedded room. You stayed up all night talking, sharing stories, cigarettes, just one of those beds. Lucille’s was never slept in. On the train journey home, Lucille fell asleep with her head on your shoulder. You didn’t have the heart to wake her until the very last possible moment. You still don’t know how you didn’t kiss her that night, lying so closely together, your fingers laced with hers. You didn’t sleep for a long time, torn between needing not to be that close to her, and desperately wanting to be, cloaked in the darkness. Instead, you just listened to her breathing, to the distant roar of the sea and the increasingly unsteady beat of your heart get louder when she nuzzled into your side in her sleep.

The next morning, you woke up wrapped around each other, and it took you far too long to untangle yourself. It briefly crossed your mind that you wanted every day to be like this. Instead of wishing her good morning before getting dressed and going down to breakfast, you almost said something else entirely more committal. More dangerous. More damaging.

_I love you._

For once, you had the forethought to hold your tongue.

Except, that’s all you’ve done since, really, hold your tongue. You’re even doing it now, while Lucille finishes handing out squash and biscuits. They’re too old for it of course, but you can hardly give them anything else. A swift half down _The Sail_ before continuing discussions on the female reproductive system perhaps? You’re on thin ice with Sister Julienne at the moment, owing to her unintentionally, and yet frequently, being on the receiving end of your ever-shortening temper.

You thought Lucille might come into the kitchen for a few minutes. There was always time before. Time for a little joke or a quick cup of tea before you’d rally the girls and continue on. 

Now, there’s nothing. You can see her through the glass in the adjoining room. She doesn’t look around for you anymore. She doesn’t need your reassurance. That hurts more than her not talking to you, you think. She doesn’t need you anymore. The thought of her pulling away from you used to be this whispering, malevolent fear in the back of your head, and now it’s screaming so loudly you can barely think.

There’s a little over half an hour of the class left minus the break, and you’re dying for a cigarette. Phyllis has banned you from smoking when you might be seen and you don’t want to encourage the girls any further than they already have been. You know she’s right, but you’ve really had enough of rules tonight. Until recently, you’d been cutting down quite nicely, but now that craving is back at its full height. You look down at your hand, extended, expecting to find a cigarette between your fingers, but there’s nothing. Of course there’s nothing. You can’t even go out and get drunk because you agreed to switch shifts with Trixie so she could go out with Christopher later on. Going on nights for a while felt like a good idea.

After all, you don’t really sleep. You just toss and turn and stare at the ceiling until it's light and start all over again.

When you look up, Lucille is watching you, beckoning you to come back in. She has your flashcard reminders in her hand. You hold up a hand as a signal for her to wait – because thirty seconds extra to gather yourself before going back to the girls and being Nurse Dyer will make all the difference, won’t it? There’s a flash of something like sadness that briefly crosses her features, and it’s so different from the last time she looked to you like this; you at the top of the Nonnatus’ steps, and she on the pavement, waiting while Fred fixed her bike chain, whistling away. The second she saw you, picnic basket in hand, her whole face lit up with a smile, and you winked at her. It made her blush in this sweet little way. Like you were both in on a very particular kind of secret.

That secret doesn’t feel so fun anymore.

You heave a breath, smooth down your uniform, and go back to Lucille and the girls in the main room, clapping your hands loudly to call a halt to their chattering. 

_“Time’s getting on girls. Let’s get back to it.”_

There’s a few mutterings before they start moving and Lucille directs them with a softer, _“Girls_ ,” and encourages them to get their chairs into the neat semicircle you both set out half an hour ago. They’ve all paired off into little groups, exactly like you knew they would. You clear your throat, hands on your hips, and it draws their attention back to the centre of the room, where you’re both standing in front of the large easel and diagram boards. You have no idea why you’re being so harsh with them.

Lucille glances at you quickly, looking concerned. It feels significant.

You’re just about to speak to her when Dawn Gillespie finally rejoins the group, scraping her chair all the way along the floor as she goes.

_“Dawn, for God’s sake, just pick up the bloody chair!”_

You didn’t mean to yell, you _definitely_ didn’t mean to swear, but she’s testing whatever’s left of your shredded patience. Dawn looks at you, wide-eyed, accompanied by twenty sharp intakes of breath. She scurries to her place and you turn your back on them all, exasperated.

 _“Valerie_.” Lucille says, low, but you can hear the shock in her voice. You can hear the disappointment.

She’s the only one you can’t really turn your back on. 

You can feel her eyes on you as you switch the diagram boards ready for her to deliver her part of the discussion.

A bike. That’s what Dawn and her chair scraping, and her infuriating teenage arrogance made you think of: Lucille’s bike and the stupid chain that always slips no matter how Fred tries to fix it.

Every time you hear that bike chain turn, slipping a little as she rides through the gears, it makes you remember. It makes you remember cycling all the way to Wanstead Park with that picnic basket, and plans for a perfect afternoon away together. For a while, it _was_ perfect, sunglasses on, clear blue skies, with a light breeze on your back for the downhill parts. Sane people would’ve gone on the bus or the tube, or you could’ve borrowed Phyllis’ car, but no, you had to pretend you were in _Swallows and_ bloody _Amazons_ or some sort of Keats-eque romantic dream, so cycling it was, racing and bobbing and weaving. Giggling like silly schoolgirls.

For a while, it was so perfect, just _being_ with her. You didn’t have a care in the world and it was all going exactly how you planned. You should’ve quit while you were ahead, because everything that could go wrong, did.

You aren’t schoolgirls anymore, your summers were _never like_ that of the Walker children, and Lucille’s beloved Keats is long dead.

If the trip had been taken in April, you could’ve shown her the bluebells in Chalet Wood. But, it wasn’t, it was August and there were no more bluebells. Instead, what was meant as the biggest surprise of your visit; better than all the talking and the daft jokes and the longing looks; better than walking right next to her, pushing your bikes along – listening to that tick-tick-tick of the chain all the while – was just an huge anti-climax. One that undid all your perfect planning to get the same day off, have your pick of Mrs B’s best picnic offerings when she put together the basket, and get Fred to check that bike three times before you both left Poplar. One that made you wearing that still new Mary Quant dress and trying a new lip colour seem ridiculous, because it wasn’t a date at all. One that undid all the earlier giddiness of the day when you stopped off for a rest and laid out on the picnic blanket, cloud watching, pointing out animals and silly shapes just to make her laugh.

You love that laugh. You love the way she fell against you and you felt her breath on your neck. You love the way you lay there together, just looking up at that sky, saying nothing when Lucille’s hand slipped in to yours and laced your fingers together.

That was perfect. That you could’ve lived with as your memory for the day, because then the sky was still blue, and you could still hide from the scrutiny of Lucille’s gaze with shade from your sunglasses. The blue skies became overcast soon after that, and you moved on, retreating from the open and under the cover of trees, building up to the big reveal that wasn’t.

_“I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to see them.”_

You sounded vaguely petulant and not-at-all-vaguely pathetic, sitting there with her in the long grass, bikes leaning against the nearest tree, looking out on what you’d imagined would be a field full of bluebells.

_"A barren field, lukewarm lemonade and fish paste sandwiches. Stuff for sonnets that, Lucille."_

You sighed, looking down at your sandwich, picking at the crust and pulling it off before casting the plate aside.

_“It doesn’t matter.”_

_“Of course it matters!”_

You frowned, cross with yourself for being so disappointed. You’d put too much thought into this. You cared too much.

_“I’m with you.”_

At her admission, your head jerked up in surprise. She was looking right at you, sunglasses off, clutching them loosely. The look in her eyes was so earnest, so pure.

So unlike anything you’d seen before.

You swallowed, mouth dry suddenly, regretting all the lemonade you drank on the ride down.

_“You are.”_

She smiled. Something passed between you or above you or around you, you’re still not sure.

And then, just like that, it was gone in the blink of an eye.

 _“I will see them,”_ she said, leaning close. _“Next April_.”

A peal of laughter escaped her, and you shoved her away good-naturedly.

_“It’s not funny!”_

You looked back at her, trying to seem angry, but you couldn’t, not with the smile on her face.

_“It’s so very sweet of you to try.”_

You couldn’t help but be charmed. You couldn’t help but move closer again.

 _“I’d like to see them_.” You’re close enough to see how she steels herself, swallows hard before saying, _“I’d like to see them with you.”_

You couldn’t help what happened next either.

Without really thinking, you leant forward to close what little space remained between you, and kissed her. A gentle, brief peck. It was the best answer you could give her. You pulled away slightly, unsure of what had taken hold of you, but so sure at the same time. You didn’t have time to panic or regret or apologise it away as a friendly gesture or a simple, confused mistake, because suddenly, Lucille’s hands were framing your face, and her mouth was pressed against yours, hard and deliberate. Not a mistake at all and a different kind of answer you never expected to hear. The momentum of it made you fall backwards, half on the blanket, half in the grass, bringing her down with you, grasping tightly to the back of her blouse. Her own hands shifted upwards, fingertips threading through your hair. Her touch set off something or broke something open, you’re not sure. This time, there was no freezing, no pulling away. You kissed her back – quick, greedy, desperate – as if you’d never get to kiss her again if you dared to let your lips part.

You kissed her back without any kind of control. Without care for who might see.

By the time you did stop – some nagging feeling at the back of your brain reminded you where you were – Lucille was underneath you, flushed and breathless, staring up at you like she’d never seen you before. For a few moments, you weren’t sure if the ragged breathing you could hear was hers or yours. You don’t remember moving really, only holding her, kissing her, touching her. Only the feeling of her body against yours. The warmth of her skin. The light scent of her perfume. She still clung to you, her hands still on your hips, holding tightly to the fabric of your not-so-new-now dress as if anything else was too much. She looked at you like her entire world was different, tinted with some new colour she didn’t have a name for. It was a new world. A world that was silent and still, because couldn’t really _breathe or speak_ or think or anything at all. You couldn’t do anything because all you could see was the crucifix around her neck; gold, the afternoon sun catching on it.

A warning. A reminder. A burden.

The moment clarity descended for you, snapping you out of whatever strange haze had settled over you both, the clouds over your heads got darker, and rain began to fall in fast, heavy droplets like it only ever seems to in summer. That tense, crackling energy you’d felt in the air all day long seemed something like a threat now. If Lucille’s God was watching, he’d surely strike you down.

_“We should ...we should go.”_

That’s what you said. That’s what broke the spell. Again, you didn’t blurt out the apology or admit to the mistake. You didn’t even ask her if she was OK or treat the moment with the kind of tenderness you always thought you might. No, you didn’t do anything like that; you just blinked back surprise against the sudden intrusion of the rain and acted like it hadn’t happened. Too terrified to acknowledge the deep, _deep_ , longing you had to keep kissing her; crucifixes, rainstorms, and God be damned.

Damned. Maybe that’s what you were now. 

It would explain a lot. It would explain the sadness and confusion etched on Lucille’s face when you scrambled away from her and started to pack up the basket. If she _was_ hurt or confused, she didn’t give voice to those feelings, and she hasn’t said a word about what happened since. If you didn’t have the proof of what happened – grass in your hair; grass stains on that dress that refuse to budge, no matter how many potions and remedies Trixie and Violet have tried; scratches on your legs from the brambles, running to grab your bicycle and ride home – you’d have thought it some elaborate, vivid dream.

That ride was silent, and miserable. The forty minutes felt like forty hours this time. All that joyous downhill was now torturous uphill. The rain battering down on you both was good for one thing, it let you cry, unseen and unheard, because your tears weren’t distinguishable from it. You’d ruined everything. You’d ruined _her_. Whatever happened, things would never _, ever_ , be the same between you. 

Just like you knew it would, that chain slipped off again, and left you both walking the last mile or so of the journey.

By the time you got back to Nonnatus House, it was starting to get dark, and you were soaked to the skin, sneezing, hurried inside by Phyllis with a, _“Get in here, you’ll catch your death the both of you!”_ You stood silent, hugging yourself against the cold, dripping water all over the floor and let the others rally around you with towels and tea, before sanity or self-preservation finally kicked in. Suddenly, you heard yourself telling them all how the storm, now complete with loud rumbling thunder and horrendously loud cracks of lightning, had been the thing to ruin your otherwise perfect day out.

That part was the truth at least.

 _“An awful shame,”_ Sister Winifred said, offering Lucille a hot water bottle with one hand, and you another towel with the other.

How right she was. How very right.

Any second, you expected Lucille to say something. To unveil that parts of the day you weren’t so truthful about. To reveal you, but she never did. It would’ve been so easy for her to betray you, but then that would be another kind of denial. Different to the lie you’ve inadvertently made her tell in the days since.

Lies by omission, but still very much lies.

 _Thou shalt not bear false witness_.

Those false witnesses might believe she didn’t kiss you back, or that the desire she felt wasn’t as obvious and as clear as yours.

Liars all.

That’s the hardest thing about all of this you think. If she had have pushed you away or run away, rightly terrified and confused, unable to return your feelings, you think it would’ve been easier than this. Easier than those minutes in the grass, where she didn’t just give _in_ to kissing you, she gave _to_ you.

Eagerness. Curiosity. Hunger.

You felt it all, with a keenness you never really have with anyone else before. In that moment, she wanted you in a way you never expected. It was an all-consuming thing. A sudden wave of feeling enveloping you, bursting to the surface without any real warning. Oh so different to those Whitstable tides. That’s what you couldn’t shake in the immediate hours. This wasn’t some silly, unrequited crush that you’d have to work through, oh no, this was entirely reciprocal. You replayed the afternoon over and over in your head, capitalising on Phyllis’ suggestion of drawing you a hot bath to escape questions and the weight of Lucille’s gaze.

In saying nothing, she said everything.

That night, you sunk into that hot water, at first, relishing the soothing effects of the heat and the lavender bubble bath Phyllis poured in as an extra treat. Then, you stayed there, silent and cocooned, letting it grow cold, not caring how your skin wrinkled or that you were shivering again. You told them you’d be out soon when they rapped on the door to see how you were. You told them you’d be fine in your familiar cheery voice. It came to you with startling ease. Lies are amongst your talents. Like learning languages or holding your breath underwater.

You held your breath under the surface of that cold bathwater longer than you thought possible. You wanted to scream, but you knew it would echo off the walls and give you away. You wanted to weep and wail about how much Lucille’s silence hurt, knowing that in the end, that pain would only grow, because she would reject you in the end. In a sweet, kind, Lucille way that would make the inevitable breaking of your heart all the more difficult to bear. The shards would be smaller, the breaks less clean, and it would take you longer to recover.

There are different kinds of heartbreak, you know that now.

There’s too much you can’t do, and can’t say, and can’t possibly feel. There’s so much you keep secret, hidden in your chest, you wonder how you manage to keep breathing.

You had to stay in that bathroom, sitting in the freezing cold soapy water, hugging your knees until you found the space to fill your lungs to breathe again. You survived losing Jessie Saunders. You survived losing Lottie Schlegel, but could you survive Lucille?

For the briefest of moments, you thought about not coming back up for air, imagining them finding you: Ophelia. Serene. The thought left you as quick as it came, but the solace of the bathtub was cleansing in its own way. You emerged from the water renewed, stubbornly refusing to give in. Surviving once means you can do it again. After Barbara, it just seemed selfish and cruel. Deep down, you know you couldn’t do that to Lucille. You couldn’t leave her carrying around all that blame. All that hurt and regret.

One sin too many. Another name to be whispered about.

It was just a moment. A blip. Least said, soonest mended as your mum always says.

Except now, you know that tack just made things worse. It allowed this great void of space to open up between you and Lucille, that gets bigger and bigger by the day and you have no real hope of navigating across.

Once the initial sting of separation started to subside, it got easier and easier to not be around her and not talk to her about anything beyond work and the immediate task in hand. She doesn’t confide in you. She doesn’t seek you out for chats, but you have noticed her absence at the kitchen table more and more in the last week, knowing her evenings were spent at the Palmers.’ The others think it’s just for the company, and maybe they’re right, but you know that’s where she goes to worship too. You wonder what she’s said, if anything, to Pastor Palmer and his wife.

You’re desperate to ask her, terrified – genuinely – if you’ve caused her faith to be shaken, sent her barrelling into some sort of crisis just because you didn’t have the good sense to show any kind of restraint. She’s not a child, remotely foolish nor some little meek innocent, but she’s also still not as worldly as you, and you can’t help but think you’ve ... well, _corrupted_ her somehow, because you’re sure she’s never been kissed like that before. In the brief conversations you had about that, everything she shared felt chaste and rather sweet, and entirely in keeping with your image of her. Questions aren’t allowed though, not anymore. You’re colleagues, not friends now.

That’s how you operate. That’s how it has to be.

So, you just have to wonder and lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, hoping she might visit when Trixie is out on call or out with Christopher, but she never has. Delivering this class is the closest you’ve gotten to being with her, preferring to use the others as a buffer.

If only you’d held back. If only you’d had the good sense to slow down and think about what you were doing, and put the brakes on before you’d had that glimpse of how passionate Lucille really is underneath it all. Still waters and all that. You like to think that you could’ve held back, that you had enough restraint to never want to be more than Lucille’s friend, but that’s the greatest lie you’re in the habit of telling yourself. It’s a lie because you did want more. You still do. Truth be told, you’d kiss her again in a heartbeat if the moment arose, and there have been times when you caught her eye accidentally, and you’ve seen the same indescribable look in her eyes – sadness, fear, longing all wrapped up in one – as you’ve sometimes seen in the mirror.

But, nothing ever happened, and that’s why you still feel alone in this room.

There _are_ fewer people now. The girls were dismissed over ten minutes ago, erupting into giggles and chatter as soon as the hour ticked over and they rushed from the room with waves and promises to return next week. Dawn Gillespie came and apologised to you as soon as the class finished, with an uncharacteristic display of earnestness. You heard the faint echo of her mother, Eleanor, in her words. Lucille watched the whole exchange, and you’re certain she had something to with it, but you don’t want to read too much into that.

You said nothing to Lucille in reply, leaving her to deal with the mums, collecting clipboards, gathering up coats, and adding yet more lipstick and chewing gum to the lost and found box while you busied yourself stacking chair after chair. It was easier. Anything is easier than talking to Lucille now. You realise that midway through stacking the chair you know Dawn was sitting in. Letting out a long, shaky sigh, you lean against it, and will yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now.

Wait. Wait until you’re in dark, with your back to Trixie, blankets and pillows muffling the sound. She’ll never question it. She knows better than to ask.

Lucille has always been the one ask things. To want to be around you and know more about you than ... anyone.

Or at least, she was.

Nothing is certain anymore. You were taking things for granted, you realise that now. Worse still, you were taking _her_ for granted. Things had become so simple and effortless with Lucille that you never even thought about possibility of things changing. Of a day when she would somehow not be at your side or considered as one of your dearest friends – no, _the_ dearest. You got lulled into a false sense of security, and it made you careless.

You’re paying for that now.

“Valerie, we need to talk.”

You look up, surprised by her sudden appearance, even more surprised by her hand resting on the top rail of the chair you’re leaning on, perilously close to touching your own.

“There’s nothing to say,” you reply, quickly, swiping your brow as you stride off toward the kitchen, escaping her for a draining board of unwashed glasses.

She’s following you. She’s not giving up. You can hear the quick tap, tap, tap of her shoes on the floor, almost in time with yours.

Why is she still the one who asks things of you? Why is she always the one to stay?

“There’s nothing to say?” she repeats, incredulous, rounding you and blocking your path. “Valerie, this is the most time we’ve spent together in the last few weeks, and still, there’s nothing to say?!”

There’s anger in her words, but it’s laced with a sadness you’ve never heard before either.

Despite everything in you telling you not to do this, not to push her away, you have to do it, for both your sakes. You squeeze through the gap she’s left and go into the kitchen, ignoring her and focussing on those glasses instead, focussing on the water rushing from the tap, waiting for it to be hot enough. She says nothing for what feels like a long time. When she speaks again, only three glasses are left, bobbing in Fairy liquid and water that’s no longer really hot enough. You think of that evening. Of the bathwater. Ophelia. 

Seventeen other glasses sit on the draining board, stacked and gleaming. The silence feels heavy enough to shatter them all.

Lucille’s the one to break it.

“You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend that you never kissed me?”

Even though your back is turned, you know she’s at staring you, gaze fixed hard. You can feel it. Instinctively, you bow your head. “I never should …” you swallow hard, mouth dry. Lies are thick. “It never should’ve happened.”

You suck in a breath, feeling one of the glasses slip through your fingers, clinking against the bottom of the sink loudly.

Finally, because it can’t be avoided, you dry your hands and turn toward her taking a few careful steps forward before saying. “I’m sorry.”

That’s true. The only true thing you’ve said.

Even in this dimmer light, you can see there are tears in her eyes.

“I kissed you back,” is all that comes in reply. As if it makes any kind of difference. “I kissed you back,” she repeats, almost defiant. She moves closer, and instinctively, you back away. “I did it because I wanted to.”

That, you didn’t expect.

“Lucille ...”

Her name is a whisper. She’s so much braver than you.

“And you wanted me to,” she adds, simply, looking you right in the eye. It feels like an accusation, even if it doesn’t sound like one.

She’s close now, so close that you have to back right against the cabinets just to get something like distance between you.

You can’t bear to look at her. You’re terrified of what’s coming, for how hard the words will sting, how deeply they’ll cut. You grip the countertop to steady yourself, waiting for the inevitable.

“And then, nothing.” She falters, for the first time, voice wavering. “For days, _weeks_. You might want to pretend like nothing happened, but I can’t.”

There it is. There’s the anger.

“You don’t understand,” you shake your head, feeling tears well up that she just can’t see fall. “We can’t ... I shouldn’t have,” you repeat, uselessly.

“But we did,” she says, softly, sadly. “All I wanted to do was talk to you, and I couldn’t, because you can’t bear to be in the same room.”

You nod solemnly. “It was the right thing to do.”

“For who?”

Her question hangs in the air, unanswered for far too long.

“I thought you’d tell the others.”

The truth slips out before you realise.

She sucks in a quick breath. “Why?” she shakes her head, on the brink of tears. “You think that little of me? I’d never – ”

That’s the only real mistake you’ve made. The pain you’ve caused her, simply by trying to deal with this alone. To cut ties. Walk away, because it that used to be the easiest way to deal with getting your heart broken. Except, it never really stopped any of the hurt. It just made it worse; bigger and heavier with no place to go. No space to contain it.

You’ve been so stupid. So incredibly stupid. She’s not like the other girls. She doesn’t hide from the world. She doesn’t tell lies. She bears no malice.

“I know,” you cut her off, desperate to try and explain. Deep down, you really _do_ know she wouldn’t be the one to betray you. She isn’t capable of that kind of cruelty.

Maybe you are.

You’d convinced yourself that this was about wanting to protect her, but it was about protecting yourself too. “I didn’t want to give them something else to talk about,” you step closer. It feels dangerous. “To give them another reason to …” you trail off, unsure how or even if you can finish that sentence.

“Think I’m not like them?” she overlaps, finishing it for you.

You nod, because you can’t do anything else. Old wounds are opening. It’s another truth you can’t avoid. Sometimes, they stack up so high; it gets hard to see beyond them. Lucille reminds you there’s room for the light to come in. She is the light.

“I don’t care about them,” she continues, quietly defiant. “I care about you.”

“I do too.”

It sounds too small an admission for what you know is too big a feeling.

Your fingertips brush against hers, you’re so close to taking her hand, but you don’t. You’re afraid of scaring her. You’re afraid of touching her even more. All this closeness, it’s too much.

Her answer is quick. “I kissed you back.” It’s a gentle reminder, but it sounds different, sounds from another place. She lets out a long, unsteady breath. “I’ve been so confused,” she breaks now, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

The urge to comfort her, to reach out and brush those tears away is overwhelming. You hate that. That she’s been hurting so much. That you’ve both suffered alone, needlessly.

“Oh Lu,” is all you manage, brokenly. She blurs in front of you when the tears you’ve held in for so long finally fall. You haven’t called her that in so long – after weeks of Lucille, and Nurse Anderson – it feels foreign in your mouth.

Before you realise, you’re pulling her into a hug that’s probably too tight, and she lets out soft little sobs, clinging to you just as tightly with her face buried in the crook of your neck. You feel every one of them. For long moments, you say nothing, and you’re just there, holding each other, and that’s alright. You didn’t realise how much you needed it. How much you missed all that closeness. How the thought of never having any of it again made you ache.

When she finally lets go, and steps back to look at you, everything feels different. You’ve built a bridge or crossed a boundary that you never knew existed.

“I’m sorry,” you say, hoping she knows you truly mean it. “I’m so sorry.”

“I had to search within myself,” she pauses to gather herself, choosing her words carefully. “And then, I turned to God, and Pastor Palmer, for guidance.”

You bow your head close your eyes, cutting her off from view, because that sinking feeling – the familiar, heavy dread – is back, but this time, it’s laced with more than a little shame.

“But, the Lord couldn’t help me, and Pastor Palmer, he couldn’t either,” she continues, her voice shaking. “He couldn’t help me to understand you,” a pause, a quick steadying breath, “to understand us.”

Your eyes snap open. _Us._

A word you never _, ever_ , expected to hear.

“You see, I’m not stupid, Valerie. I know there’s something between us. That night when we met, I prayed, and I prayed for someone to come help me, and I knocked on the door of Nonnatus, and there you were,” there’s a softness and a sweetness back in her voice when she adds, “the lights made you look like you had a halo.”

Something in your chest twists at that, like your heart is too heavy, too full, with love and it’s fit to burst. You never believed in angels either.

Until you saw someone who behaved like one.

Until you met Lucille.

You open your mouth to speak, to argue, to say something _, anything_ , to reassure her, but she holds up a finger, stopping you.

“Men have said they loved me, that they wanted to marry me,” she looks up at the ceiling, blinking back fresh tears. You tighten your grip on the counter, desperate to reach out and comfort her, knowing that you shouldn’t. Not now. Not ... yet. “And then, they’d kiss me, and ...” she sighs heavily, sad when she finishes with, “and it wasn’t the same. I wouldn’t feel it like them. I didn’t believe them.”

She’s looking you right in the eyes, and you know it. You know that you can’t do it this time. You can’t push her away, just like she can’t walk away either. There’s no new posting in another country to tear you apart, like with Lottie.

The only thing standing in the way of what might be with you and Lucille, is you.

“I felt it with you,” she shakes her head, smiling through fresh tears. “My goodness, I felt it!” Despite everything, you smile. “And, you felt it too.”

You never really could hide your feelings, no matter how hard you tried, or how deeply you thought they were buried.

“So, it’s been in my mind all this time,” she pauses, licking her lips, her gaze lowering to your mouth. “What it would be like, if I kissed you again,” another pause, and her voice is lower, shakier, when she nervously adds, “if it would feel the same.”

“You need to know?” you find yourself asking, realising it’s as much for you as it is her.

That’s been keeping you up at night too. Needing to know.

Curious and yet terrified about the possibility of recapturing that moment and all that came with it. What if it was just some strange fluke? There and gone? You might feel nothing at all, and you’ve blown this out of proportion. A kiss is just a kiss, after all. But, you know that’s not really true, not when it comes to Lucille. She’s right, something has always been there, right from the moment you helped her into the warmth of Nonnatus House.

You have no idea why you’re holding back. The point of no return has come and gone long ago. 

Letting out a long breath, you close what little distance there is between you, and reach out, your hands framing Lucille’s face. It’s careful and gentle, just she was toward you all those weeks ago, but it’s different now. It’s so different now. You tilt your head down, and she lifts hers up. Her lips brush against yours, just once.

Blood rushing, heart pounding, just from that innocent little moment.

You pull back a little, watching for any sort of sign from her. Then, it comes. She kisses you again, soft, yet curious. You trade little pecks like this, each longer than the last. Like she’s testing you or you’re testing her. You’re not really sure. Her hands slide around your waist, and you can feel her relaxing into you, into _this_. You give in too, your hands sliding around to cup the back of her neck, and then, wrapping your arms around her completely. You never want to let go.

She kisses you again, and it’s longer and deeper than all the others. She’s not scared. She really is the brave one. The momentum of it pushes you back against the cabinet, but you don’t really care. You don’t care, because there’s that feeling again. Blissful, dizzying, intoxicating like that day at Wanstead. Just like then, you can’t think, and you can’t really breathe, because all you want to do is keep kissing her like this.

You have your answer.

“I know now,” Lucille says, breathlessly, when you grudgingly break the kiss, arms resting loosely around her neck. “I know now.”

You don’t say anything at all, because you don’t need to. She’s still holding on to you, even though she doesn’t need to do that either.

This isn’t a test anymore. It wasn’t a fluke. She’s looking at you differently now. Something has changed. Love. You see it. You can taste it. You can feel it. Love, reflected right back at you.

There are new questions inside that look, ones that will take longer to answer, but you have time now. There’s always time.

“Home then?” you ask, softly.

It sounds a lot like ‘I know too.’

A bright smile spreads across Lucille’s face. She remembers. So much has happened since she first said that to you all those weeks ago, before that haze of a summer, but so much is the same too.

You’ll fill the sink with fresh water and finish those glasses, stacking them neatly in the cupboard, humming along to the radio as you do it. You’ll carry out the boxes of clipboards and equipment, lock up, turn out the lights, and ride home the long way to Nonnatus.

Lucille’s bike chain won’t slip once.

Every moment of it will feel different and wondrous, because now, the shy smiles, the shared jokes and soft laugher, the unnecessary touches that you wished away and labelled as nothing for so long actually mean something.

You’ll never feel alone in this room again.


End file.
